


impaired the nameless grace

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme: "Frottage. Any/Any, clothes on, accidental, intercrural, ANYTHING, I just need me some non-penetrative sexy times." [<a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3613487#t3613487">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	impaired the nameless grace

It’s Courfeyrac who suggests it. Of course it is – he leans forward conspiratorially across the table and Grantaire can’t help but to do so too, lean towards that wicked grin and those glinting eyes.

“I haven’t a sou for wine,” Courfeyrac whispers. “But let us suppose that the cellar below is well stocked.”

They are in a tavern in a part of the city neither would usually deign to enter, sent by Enjolras on recruitment purposes, but Grantaire is easily distracted and Courfeyrac easily persuaded. Both are broke and drunk enough that they are not above petty thievery.

And that is how Grantaire finds himself pressed between the stone of a cellar wall and Courfeyrac.

 

They escape below the floor unnoticed. The tavern is full and it is late, the darkness illuminated little by the waning glow of few candles.

Courfeyrac is right: the cellar is small but piled high, crates of wine and ale and suspicious spirits at close hand. From a small chest Courfeyrac liberates some fine wine and from another a port that he claims, loudly, his father drinks. Whether it is true or not is of no consequence. Grantaire is content with the first bottle he can reach.

And they drink in that dank room until suddenly the door is cast open and light sweeps in, and there are light footsteps on the stone stairs.

One of the bar girls has come in search of more ware for the drunken customers eager to hand over a dirtied coin, and Courfeyrac is quick to pull a stumbling Grantaire to his feet and push them both behind the cover of several stacked crates. Grantaire’s back thuds against the stone and it hurts but he cannot utter a sound.

“How many bottles?” calls up the girl, her high voice worn rough by smoke. There is an inaudible response from above.

Courfeyrac turns silently to inspect the print of the crate they are hidden behind. “Let us hope she does not ask for the cheap wine,” he whispers, brazenly. He is closer than Grantaire had thought. “Or we shall be discovered.”

Grantaire does not respond, not even to laugh quietly at the poor joke, because Courfeyrac has turned back and his movements, restricted as they are, are not without effect. They are contained within a small space, no more than a few feet. Courfeyrac’s leg has slipped between Grantaire’s thighs in his haste to find concealment, and now their hips are pressed most interestingly together and Grantaire may be a drunkard but he is no fool.

Courfeyrac shifts forward, ostensibly to peer at Grantaire’s expression, and his hips do also and it is a pressure Grantaire can ignore no longer. He is hardening.

“Courfeyrac,” he murmurs, and can feel the man grin against his neck – and _oh_ , of coursethis is intentional. He might’ve known; Courfeyrac makes no secret of his libido, tells tall tales of his conquests both of the opposite sex and not.

Really it is filthy, to do this in some godforsaken inn in the darkest depths of Paris. Joly, dear Joly would pitch a fit were he even to see the interior of this place, but why is he thinking of Joly when he is straining against the front of his trousers and Courfeyrac is hard against him, why on earth –

Courfeyrac, in fact, has begun to work his body in a subtle rhythm that grinds his cock against the curve of Grantaire’s hip.

Grantaire shifts unconsciously, angling towards Courfeyrac, and the other rolls his hips faster in response. The friction, the rough rub of the cotton of his trousers against his hard cock is enough to elicit a gasp from Grantaire, soft and surprised, falling from his lips; and enough that Courfeyrac presses him harder against the wall, one hand curling into Grantaire’s shirt and the other splayed above his head. The wall is hard and cold beneath the thin materials of Grantaire’s shirt and coat but he does not notice, for Courfeyrac is warm and near and pressed fully against him.

A knee knocks Grantaire’s legs further apart and then his cock is nestled in the crease of thigh and crotch, rubbing with each insistent movement Courfeyrac makes. It is the most exquisite friction, heightened by the alcohol that murmurs in his veins, and Grantaire cannot help but to gasp and groan.

And it is strangely familiar. Grantaire is no stranger to Courfeyrac’s body, for it is not the first time they have drunk together nor the first time they have ended up in compromising positions, but usually at least they are able to find a bed or a passable surface, a carpet on which Courfeyrac may drop to his knees or pillows which muffle Grantaire’s moans. They work because Courfeyrac does not mind that the name that often escapes Grantaire’s lips is often not his own but that of a certain golden-haired leader and Grantaire does not mind that at times Courfeyrac seems to have bedded half of Paris. It is far from romantic but it is efficient and enjoyable and easy, a familiarity and friendship rendered lustful.

But here there is no teasing argument as to who is on his back or on his knees. There is no time to admire a faint flush or expanses of pale skin.

Instead there is Courfeyrac grinding messily, frantically into him, Courfeyrac leaning up a little to press their lips together. Grantaire opens his mouth under Courfeyrac’s own, lets him lick into it in a sloppy kiss, all teeth and awkward noses and warm wet heat. It is desperate and wonderful.

And like the kiss the movement of their hips together is not pretty or orchestrated. Still they fall into a rhythm of sorts, Courfeyrac rutting against him in time to Grantaire’s own pushes against his thigh, the eager little movements. The front of Grantaire’s trousers is dampened by precome and the wetness only adds to the sensation, the rough rub.  

They can no longer bear to be silent – and besides the room has again been cast into darkness, so likely the bar girl has left – not when both are so close, and Grantaire is moaning wantonly into Courfeyrac’s mouth.

“Come on,” murmurs Courfeyrac, mouth slipping to Grantaire’s jaw to suck lightly there. His voice is too loud in the silence.

He grinds up just a little harder, just a little quicker – and Grantaire is bucking and shuddering, arching against the wall as he comes, rough groans escaping his mouth that Courfeyrac lifts his head to swallow. It is not long before Courfeyrac too is finishing, pressing with one final hitched breath against the dampness of the front of Grantaire’s trousers before he shakes.

He curses softly as he comes.

It is a moment, a sharp intake of steadying breath before Courfeyrac slackens his grip on Grantaire’s shirt and steps back. In the close proximity Grantaire can see the shine of sweat on his neck, the redness of his mouth and the dark circles of his eyes. He looks wrecked and drunken and he is, yes, but he also looks alive.

“Wait,” he says, and slips away into the darkness.

Grantaire slumps down against the wall and simply smiles when Courfeyrac rejoins him, pressing a bottle of wine into his hand.


End file.
